13° A little later, strolling about the town, I, stopped into
a shop near the museum, where they sold souvenirs and
post-cards. I looked over the cards leisurely j the ones I •
liked best were soiled and wrinkled. The man, who spoke
French fluently, offered to make the cards presentable.
He asked me to \tfait a few minutes while he ran over to
the house and dean and ironed them. He said he would
make them look like new. I was so dumbfounded that
before I could say anything he had disappeared, leaving
me in charge of the shop. After a few minutes his wife
came in. I thought she looked strange for a Greek woman.
After a few words had passed I realized that she was
French and she, when she learned that I hailed from
Paris, was overjoyed to speak with me. We got along
beautifully until she began talking about Greece. She «
hated Crete, she said. It was too dry, too dusty, too hot,
too bare. She missed the beautiful trees of Normandy,
the gardens with the high walls, the orchards, and so on.
Didn't I agree with her? I said NO, flatly. "Moqsiew!"
she said, rising up in her pride and dignity, as if I had
slapped her in the face.

"I don't miss anything," I said, pressing the point
hoftie. "I think this is marvellous. I don't like your gar-
dens with their high walls 5 1 don't like your pretty little
orchards and your well-cultivated-fields. I like this. . . ."
and I pointed outdobrs to the dusty road on which a
. sorely-laden donkey was plodding along dejectedly. "But
it's not civilized," she said, in a sharp, shrill voice which
reminded me of the miserly tobacconiste in the Rue de la
Tombe-Issoire.

"Je nten fous da U civilisation ewrofeennel" I blurted

"Monsiew!" she said again, her feathers ruffled and
her nose turning blue with malice. . *

Fortunately her husband reappeared at this point with